


In Joy and Celebration

by elrhiarhodan



Series: Paladin 'Verse [16]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Art, Biting, Clothes Kink, Dancing, Food, Kissing, M/M, Miss Peggy Lee, Multi, Neal as Artist, Presents, Schmoop, mirror play, paladin 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-11
Updated: 2013-06-11
Packaged: 2017-12-14 16:10:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/838806
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elrhiarhodan/pseuds/elrhiarhodan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s their first anniversary, and Peter and Neal celebrate, with Elizabeth’s help.  <i>For whatever my man is, I am his, forever and ever, evermore.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	In Joy and Celebration

El sets the reminder for him on his phone at least two months before their anniversary, and every day, an alert pops up, counting down the days. This time, he’s prepared. A gift, late reservations for a romantic dinner and dancing. The only thing that can mess this night up is work. The morning goes fine - the team clears out paperwork on a half-dozen cold case files, he works through lunch on staffing requisitions that are due at the end of the week, and more paperwork carries him through to four pm.

Then comes the knock of doom. It was Hughes. “Peter, I need you to fill for me on a critical meeting with OMB.”

By the time Peter trudges back into the offices, it’s well after six and the office is empty. _So much for planning_. There’s a text from Neal that he got a lift home from Jones and would see him tomorrow. Peter grimaces – Neal undoubtedly thinks he’s forgotten the date. He calculates whether or not he has time to hit the gym showers and get changed and still make the dinner reservation. Peter takes a sniff at himself (OMB makes him sweat far more than OPR ever could) and decides that he will have to make the time.

It is close to seven when he pulls up to June’s Riverside Drive mansion, in his dark navy suit, white shirt and a new silver and blue tie that El had selected just for the occasion. Peter thought about picking up flowers, but that just seems, well, over the top. The gift, though - he hopes Neal likes it.

He knocks on Neal’s door, a courtesy he can never quite bring himself to forgo, and as always, his heart races just a little bit while he waits for Neal to answer. Despite everything, or maybe because of everything, the moment when Neal opens the door is magical. Whether or not he is expecting Peter, there is always a flash of surprised joy that make Neal’s eyes glow when he sees Peter, and Peter finds himself living for that infinitesimal second of raw happiness.

This evening is no different, Neal opens the door, and yes, that joy, that happiness, shines unguarded and maybe tonight, just a bit brighter, just a bit longer. Peter doesn’t want to breathe. He sets his gift down and carefully, gently cups Neal’s face between his hands and kisses him. His lips try to convey all the love, the need and the desire that resides within him, day in and day out.

Neal responds with an equal ardor, and Peter drinks it down like he is consuming the richest of wines. He’s been thinking about this kiss, this perfect kiss all day, through the team meetings, the paperwork, and even the damn OMB session.

Breathless, they finally separate.

“Wow.” Neal blinks, a small, even shy, smile on his lips. “Not that I mind, but, well, wow.”

“Neal,” Peter tries to keep some sternness in his voice, but knows he fails miserably. “Why aren’t you dressed?”

Neal looks at him a bit quizzically and plucks at the casual shirt and chinos he had changed into. “Peter, what do you think these are?”

Peter resists the urge to swat Neal. “I mean, a suit.” It’s easier to pretend that Neal understands that they’ll be going out tonight to celebrate. He feels silly and a little awkward – romantic gestures are not something he will ever to be good at. “We have 8 o’clock reservations for a corner booth at Cascabelle’s, and I don’t think you want to wear those.”

In a completely out-of-character moment that has Neal standing there slack-jawed, Peter goes to his closet, pulls out Neal’s favorite black dinner suit, a white shirt and a tie that seemed to be a narrower, but identical version of the one he was wearing. He holds it out to Neal and just asks “Elizabeth?”

Neal nods but makes no move to change. “What’s the occasion?”

Peter doesn’t bother to respond; he drops the clothes on the bed, picks up Neal’s Blackberry and thumbs through the calendar entries. There are no appointments, just a single asterisk entered for today’s date. He holds the phone out to Neal, “I think you know what the occasion is,” and grins as a blush rises from Neal’s collar.

“I didn’t think you’d remember. You’ve been married for over ten years and you don’t remember your wedding anniversary.” In other words, he didn’t want to get his hopes up.

Peter grimaces. “I had some help from El.” A small, self-deprecating huff of laughter. I needed you to remind me of my tenth anniversary with El, do you really think I’d remember our first on my own?”

Neal laughs and brushes a kiss against Peter’s lips before going to the bedroom to change. “Cascabelle’s, I’m impressed. Or was that Elizabeth’s doing, too?”

Peter watches Neal strip and change, catching his gaze in the mirror. “I’m taking the Fifth on that one.”

Neal smirks at him, but when he goes to put on his tie, Peter stands behind him, unbuttons his shirt halfway and started to press kisses against the sensitive skin behind his ear, then against his neck, rubbing a hand against the cotton covered warmth of his belly. All the while, he keeps eye contact through their reflection. Neal leans back against the solid block of Peter’s body and when he closes his eyes, Peter bites down softly, just at the point where Neal’s neck meets his shoulder. He feels Neal’s breathing stutter, but he doesn’t open his eyes. Peter bites harder, sucking the flesh between his teeth; bring a bruise to the surface. Neal’s eyes finally open, his pupils dilated by desire. Peter bites him again, just under his ear, hard and sharp, then re-buttons Neal’s shirt and adjusts the collar, making sure the teeth marks are clearly visible above the knife-sharp cotton.

Neal makes no move to put on his tie, so Peter finished dressing him and then turns him back to the mirror. “Look at yourself – you look like you need a good fucking.”

Neal smiles back at Peter. “Yeah, and are you the man to give it to me?”

Peter whispered in his ear “Me, and no other.”

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

From Peter’s point of view, dinner was damn near perfect. They have the promised corner booth, not hidden, but still secluded. He keeps Neal off his game by seducing him with words and casual touches – every so often running a finger along the teeth marks on Neal’s neck, feeding him morsels from his own plate. And damn if Neal’s blushes aren’t worth his own feelings of ridiculousness. It occurs to Peter that probably no one has ever truly, honestly made Neal the center of his world, cared for him as if he were the most precious person in the universe. Not his alcoholic mother, nor his martinet father. Not the con men he schemed with, nor the marks he played. Whatever he and Kate had - it was Neal who orbited Kate, and she certainly didn’t give a fuck about making Neal happy.

“Peter - you don’t have to…” He slides a spoon full of chocolate gateau between Neal’s lips to shut him up and then leans over to lick the residue off his lips. The lick becomes a kiss and he bites down on the deliciously plump curve of Neal’s lower lip. It’s sweet and succulent and although they are at the end of their meal, it’s an appetizer for the rest of the evening.

The stage show for which Cascabelle’s was famous, begins. The singer, a credible Miss Peggy Lee impersonator, sings about her man, the bass, hot horns, and snare of the jazz combo throbing in the background. Peter loves to dance, and the expression on Neal’s face when he gets up, bows and holds out his hand is absolutely priceless. Completely oblivious to any stares or looks of censure, he helps Neal out of the booth and on to the postage stamp sized dance floor.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a dozen times, you have to stop underestimating me.” Peter ignores the look of panic on Neal’s face, takes him into his arms and holds him close, swaying in time with the sensuality of the music.

They fit perfectly together, and Peter presses his face into Neal’s neck, on the opposite side from where he had bit him earlier, lightly setting his teeth to the exposed skin and Neal shudders – perhaps in excitement of being marked, being claimed, so publicly. They aren’t hidden in darkness, and artful lighting on the dance floor keeps them moving in that interstitial place between light and shadow. Humming lightly into Neal’s ear, Peter sings, a little off-key, _For whatever my man is, I am his, forever and ever, evermore._

Despite the beauty of the moment and their near satiation of sensuality, Neal’s dancing is stiff, awkward and by the third time that Neal steps hard on his foot, Peter knows some is wrong. Neal, usually so graceful, is wooden in his arms. He kisses his cheek and whispers, “What’s the matter.”

Neal sniffs and bites his lip. “I can’t dance. Sorry.”

Peter pulls back. Neal is looking everywhere but at him. “You’re kidding me?”

Neal shakes his head and still doesn’t look at Peter. “I can’t dance…not even to save my life.”

Peter grins like a fool. Who would have thought Mr. Grace and Elegance, the modern Cary Grant, has two left feet? “Just loosen up and follow my lead, you’ve done _that_ before. It’s all in the hips.” He runs his hand down Neal’s cheek, lingers at his collar, lightly touching the kiss-shaped black and blue mark peeking out.

The song ends, and the singer begins the sexy, low and slow classic, “You Give Me Fever.” Neal relaxes into the music at last, dropping his head against Peter’s shoulder and letting his feet follow Peter’s lead. The move around the dance floor – if not poetry in motion, then just two men in love, without concern for anything but each other. When she sings the last “ _What a lovely way to burn_ ,” Peter dips Neal, pulls him back up and kisses him full on the lips. The restaurant fills with the merry sounds of clapping and happy laughter, the maître d’ hands them each a complimentary glass of surprisingly good champagne and wishes them a happy anniversary.

Elizabeth, still playing fairy godmother to her men, has taken care of the check.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

The walk back to Neal’s place was punctuated by frequent passionate kisses and the occasional dry-humping against a streetlamp pole. Frankly, Peter couldn’t care less about the hoots and yells of “get a room” from a few passing cars. This was New York and while gay-bashing in the City hasn’t completely gone the way of smallpox, he doesn’t feel the least bit threatened. Maybe the shoulder holster and loaded Glock-22 under his left arm helps. By the time they make it back to the Riverside Drive mansion, Peter’s fairly drunk on lust and Neal doesn’t seem much better.

They make it to the first landing before Peter playfully shoves Neal against the wall and pins him with his hips. “I think you need an anniversary spanking.”

“Hmmm - aren’t spankings for birthdays?” Neal laughs a kiss into Peter’s mouth.

“Nope, not for you. The question is, over my lap or tied up on the bed?”

Neal eyes light up, but he pushes back and dances up the last flight of stairs. “Only if you can catch me.”

Peter takes off after him, and Neal playfully tries to shut the door on his lover. When Peter pushes against it, Neal opens the door and drags Peter in by his tie. “You only get to spank me when I’m bad...and I thought I was so very, very good tonight. Despite the dancing.” He punctuates this sentence with champagne-scented kisses, each one deeper than the last.

Peter kisses Neal back, his tongue and lips and teeth at turns playful and domineering, and finally taking full control. “You’re mine to fuck and to love - but I’d never do anything you don’t want. I’d never take anything that you don’t want to give me.” He feels Neal shiver against the intensity of Peter’s words, and the vows within them. “Tell me what you want tonight.”

Neal kissed him hard, and looks into his eyes, and it is as if Peter is drowning in a sea of ice blue. “Whatever you want from me, you can have. This is your night, too.”

Peter is humbled by Neal’s gift of himself. They’ve played hard, exploring limits and boundaries, discovering so much about each other and themselves; beyond simple desire, finding and lighting up the darkness within. Peter knows he’ll never stop being awed by the pure generosity of his lover, the willingness to go into those dark spaces, despite the real trauma of his past.

As much as he always wants to push Neal to the edge of his limits, maybe this isn’t the night for that. Maybe this is a night for revisiting the simple joy of coming together, of celebrating their ability to put aside guilt and grief and rebuild themselves into something stronger and better. Peter quickly sheds his own clothes, taking more care with the shoulder rig and his gun, naturally, than his best suit, and then strips Neal, divesting him of his elegant outer shell like a squire caring for his knight.

When Neal is standing before him, naked and erect, Peter takes hold of Neal’s hand and pulls him back in front of the mirror.

Peter’s breath catches in desire, he’s self-aware enough not to consider himself a beast, but the contrast between his taller, broader frame and Neal’s narrower, leaner body still startles him, and looking at the two of them in a mirror is one of his favorite sights. Peter watches Neal’s face as he runs his hands over his body, down his smooth hairless chest, shaping the well-defined pectorals, teasing the tight dark nipples, toying first with the whorl of his navel and then tangling in the arrow of dark hair that starts just below and blossoms out into a well trimmed nest that frames his perfect cock. Peter watches as Neal is transformed simply by the feel of his hands against his skin, he becomes pliant, a creature of sensation

“Look at you, how beautiful you are.”

Neal smiles, cat-like. “God, Peter, has anyone told you that you have a type? Did you ever date a blonde?”

He chuckles. “Not since high school. I was traumatized when I found out she wasn’t a natural.”

Neal turns around and gracefully slides to his knees. Peter pushes his dick into Neal’s laughing mouth. The wet heat and the slightly rough texture of his tongue against the sensitive cock head are sensations that can never become too familiar. Neal teases him, flicking the tip of his tongue against the slit, his teeth lightly scraping. Peter lets him play until the teasing becomes too much and he forces himself deeper into Neal’s mouth.

A Neal Caffrey blow job was _supposed_ to be a thing of absolute sexual precision, like oral brain surgery, as devastating as a laser guided missile. But since he had himself waxed, Neal’s been insatiable for his cock and balls and his exquisite control quickly disappears in his hunger for Peter’s bare, smooth flesh. Once, when Peter teased him about his total loss of control, Neal told him that it was his absolute fearlessness that was such a turn on, plus the idea that he didn’t care that genital depilation is usually reserved for submissives. Peter didn’t say anything – hell, he had no idea, but as long as it keeps Neal off his game, all the better.

He looks down at Neal, who is sloppily working his way to deep throating him. Peter begins to thrust harder, but without any rhythm – to keep Neal off his game, but it is going to be a close run thing – if he can get his whole cock down Neal’s throat before he comes. Neal’s worked one hand between his ass and is fingering his hole, the other hand was playing with the smooth flesh at the base of his cock, toying with his hairless balls, measuring the depth of Peter’s cock as it strokes in and out of his mouth.

“Look at me.” Lust thickens his voice. “I want to see your eyes.”

Neal obeys and again Peter has that feeling of drowning in that blueness. He yanks the restraining hand away and shoves himself deep into Neal’s throat, the pressure from his involuntary gagging triggering Peter’s own orgasm. He pulls back a bit to let Neal swallow, all the time keeping eye contact, and eventually Neal lets his softening penis slide from his lips.

Neal stays on his knees, looking up at Peter, unwilling to break eye contact – but his pupils are blown, his lips bruised, cheeks flushed, and Peter’s heart nearly breaks at the sight of this beautiful creature, this miracle of fierce intelligence, of flesh and bone and sinew – loving him.

:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::

Peter takes his time bring Neal to completion as if he wants to deepen his imprint on Neal’s soul. He slowly preps Neal until he’s undulating on the bed, rubbing against the soft cotton sheets like a wild desperate thing. When he finally enters Neal’s body, it’s like coming home after a long journey, and they lay together, like two spoons. Peter worries that delicious spot on Neal’s neck, where he marked him at the start of their evening. “You’re mine – tell me you’re mine.”

Neal, ever the trickster, refuses to answer and Peter drags it out of him, hands teasing and tormenting every sensitive spot – the ticklish curve of his waist just above his hip, the indentation of his belly button, the hot, wet tip of his cock. “Say it...”

Neal moans wantonly into Peter’s mouth, all thoughts of teasing gone. “I’m yours – only yours.”

Barely satisfied but unwilling to drag out the moment, he flips Neal onto his stomach and pushes his arms out, across the bed, like wings. Peter lays over him, covering him like shelter from a storm. “Remember our song, _’For whatever my man is, I am his, forever and ever, evermore’._ Remember, just as you are mine, I am yours. Always.”

Unable, unwilling to hold back, Peter strokes and hammers at Neal until everything turns white, and he feels Neal’s hot come erupt into his fist. They lay there, both wrecked, until Neal tries to move.

“Where are you going?” Peter whispers, almost asleep.

“Let me clean us up.” Peter grumbles in half-hearted protest as he pulls out of Neal and smiles at the Neal’s hiss of pain/pleasure. He barely stirs at the sound of running water, then the feel of a warm washcloth cleaning him up. The pillows are plumped and the cotton sheet settles around him like a cloud and Neal settles next to him and just as he’s about to drift off for the night, Peter remembers the package he left by the door so many hours ago.

He gets out of bed to retrieve the gift, ignoring Neal’s sleepy protest as he flicks on the bedside reading lamp. “Wake up, our anniversary isn’t over yet.” He drops the package on the bed, deliberately but barely missing Neal’s nose. Neal opens one eye, then the other.

“What’s this?”

“Your anniversary present, Sherlock.”

“Shit – I almost forgot.” Neal jumps out of bed and scrambles underneath it, pulling out a wrapped package similar in size and shape to the one Peter has given him. “Here” Neal shoves the parcel at Peter, then licks his lips in a uncharacteristically nervous gesture. “I hope you like it.”

“Open yours first.” Peter too, is nervous. They had exchanged gifts at Christmas, but that seemed less personal, less intimate than this moment.

Neal picks up his package and carefully pulls the tape away, painstakingly unfolding the wrapping paper, savoring the reveal.

“Neal – you’re like my grandmother. Just rip the damn paper.”

Neal smiles back but continues to take his own sweet time. Finally, finally he finishes unwrapping and lifts out a framed piece of artwork.

“Peter – this is beautiful.” Neal looks at Peter, eyes wide in appreciation. He gets out of bed and into the den where he examines the piece under the bright gooseneck reading lamp. “R. W. Woiceske - _Quiet Days_. Peter, this is an original?”

Peter grins, relieved that his gift was acceptable. “It was a choice between that or my dirty socks wrapped in bailing wire.” He goes and stands next to Neal, admiring the drypoint. “There’s something very peaceful about it – I don’t know exactly – a little sad too.”

“It’s perfect. We’ll hang it tomorrow.” Neal gives Peter a quick kiss and retrieves the present that Peter left behind on the bed. “Now, open yours.”

The package feels like it contains a frame, and Peter smiles at the odd symmetry of their gift exchange. Unlike Neal, Peter rips the paper off quickly. It is a frame – make from a wide band of beautifully polished oak, joined in the Craftsman style, but unlike Peter’s gift to Neal, the artwork inside is contemporary. An original Neal Caffrey. His breath catches. Neal’s made a complete study of him, at work, at home, playing ball and playing with Satchmo – maybe a dozen altogether. Each image flows from one to the other, executed in a combination of high detail and quick pencil strokes.

“I don’t know what to say.” He knows how rare it for Neal to produce anything original. Whatever demons drove him to use his talents to copy, rather than create, must have been on a holiday. Peter shakes his head slightly in amazement. “This is incredible. You see me like this?”

“Ummm. And like this.” Neal took the picture out of Peter’s hands and flipped it over. He handed the frame back to Peter. “Press the top two pegs.” Peter followed Neal’s instructions and a small inset panel popped out. _Of course, a gift from Neal would have a secret compartment._ Peter pulled the panel the rest of the way out and gasps. The hidden picture was an exquisitely detailed oil of Peter, lying on his back, completely naked, cock erect and flush against his belly, balls draw up tight. If it wasn’t for the subject matter, the miniature could have been from the 17th century.

Peter wants to put the panel back in, but he can’t stop looking at himself.

“You like it?” Neal is nervous – the worry of an artist more than a lover coloring his voice.

Peter reluctantly sets the picture down on the table and pulls Neal into his arms. “Like is a very mild word.”

They sit there on the couch in companionable silence for a few minutes and finally drift back to the bedroom. Nestled front to back, Neal relaxes under Peter’s arm. “Thank you for tonight, for everything.”

Peter kisses Neal at the nape of his neck. “You're welcome, and just think – you do this again tomorrow night, with Elizabeth.”

Neal sighs, a susurration of contentment. “Hmmm – good. Just as long as I don’t have to dance.”

__

FIN


End file.
